To the Very Best of Times
by soochangeable
Summary: "Sherlock is actually a girl's name." We Johnlockers know what Sherlock actually wanted to say. But what if he had said what we wanted him to? Or almost said it... Eventual Johnlock, rated T because it's probably going to get dark.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey guys, I've never written a fanfic before in my life, but I might write more if you guys like this. Please let me know what you think, I really want to hear it even if it's negative. Follow, review, all that good stuff. Don't expect quick updates, though. I work hard to try and keep everything in character, and I'll admit that John is a challenge. There will eventually be Johnlock, but not slash because that's not how I picture their relationship. Anyways, enough of my rambling. Hope you enjoy!**

"John, there's something…" Sherlock paused. John looked round at him. "…I should say, I've meant to say always and I never have. Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now." Sherlock looked at the ground.

John squinted up at his friend. He shifted in the uncomfortable silence. "Well?"

"It's something that I realized quite recently, but there was never really a good opportunity to tell you, what with… things the way they are." They made brief eye contact, then it was John's turn to glance at the pavement. Sherlock's eyes lingered on his face for a moment more. "These sentimental things are hard for me, as you well know."

John laughed. "Yes, _that_ is true." He blinked. "Wait – you, sentimental? I thought you were… well, caring's not an advantage, right?"

"Yes, while I don't usually like to be hindered by emotions, this may be the last time I'll ever speak to my best friend."

"You sound like you're dying or something," John said. He almost laughed, but his smile died when he saw the look on Sherlock's face. "You're not – Mycroft wouldn't… he wouldn't send you on some suicide mission, would he? I mean, he said himself that he worries about you." John searched for an answer in his friend's eyes.

Sherlock offered no comfort, however. "Like I said… he's a rubbish big brother."

"No, Sherlock – you can't make a joke out of this. It's not funny," John said. He paused, then looked up at Sherlock. "Wasn't once enough?"

"Yes, well, that time it wasn't real."

"But I thought it was." John's voice broke.

They looked at each other. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak.

"Sherlock," Mycroft called. "You've had your moment, it's time to go."

Sherlock sighed. "To the very best of times, John," he said, holding out his hand.

John looked at Sherlock for a moment. They shook hands, and John Watson's best friend in all the world turned away and boarded Mycroft's private plane.

Sherlock watched his only friend shrink into the distance. He was holding hands with Mary, a dark speck of grey against the tarmac. John would never know now what he had meant to say. Perhaps he would figure it out, but by then, Sherlock would be long gone. Maybe it was better this way. Now he could live a happy life with Mary and their child and never wonder what might have happened if Sherlock had said something before.

Sherlock, deep in thought, didn't notice the flight attendant until he said, "Sir? It's your brother." The man handed him a phone.

"Mycroft." His brother's voice came through the phone. "I've only been gone four minutes… Oh for god's sake, make up your mind," Sherlock said, exasperated, but curiosity got the better of him. "Who needs me this time?" Sherlock heard his older brother sigh.

"England."


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey guys, sorry for the long wait! Thanks for the reviews, they make me so happy :) Anyways, here's the next chapter and I hope it's up to scratch. It's a bit longer than the last one. I've discovered that Mary is hard too, as well as John and Mary's relationship dynamic. Hope you enjoy!**

The roof again. John stood in the street, staring up at Sherlock.

"It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."

"What – leave a note when?" Every night the same, but John would never stop feeling that same terror and doubt.

"To the very best of times, John," Sherlock said. John watched as Sherlock threw his phone behind him.

"Sherlock!" John shouted. Don't do this to me again, please, Sherlock…

Sherlock jumped, but he didn't fall. Instead, he grew a pair of enourmous black wings and hovered for a moment as John stared, dumbfounded. _Time to go_, a voice whispered. With a beat of his wings, Sherlock took off into the sky, shrinking into a black dot in the distance and then disappearing altogether. And John knew that he was gone, could never come back, it was more real than it ever was after the fall. Sherlock Holmes was gone – not dead, but gone where John could never reach him. And he could never come back.

A whisper in his mind, cold and disdainful, said just one word: _Sentiment._

And then Moriarty was there. "It is a weakness with me… but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness." The backdrop changed until they were standing in the dark pool where Sherlock and John had first met Moriarty. This time, though, John was alone. "No Sherlock to save you now, John. No more hero. He's left you all alone…" Moriarty said.

The word reverberated in the silent pool. Alone, alone, alone. "So alone, John," said Moriarty. John sensed the little red dot on the back of his head, and John knew he was going to die. The voices grew into a cacaphony in his head: alone, alone, and everything went white.

John woke with a start. He sat bolt upright. _Alone… Not alone, I'm not alone, Sherlock is still here_, he thought in an attempt to calm his racing heart. He felt Mary's hand on his arm.

"John? Oh good, you're awake. Are you alright?" She asked. Mary stood over him. John had been sleeping on the couch. "I heard you shouting and I thought something might be wrong."

"Fine… I'm fine," John said, once he had caught his breath. Mary was looking at him with an odd expression. He'd been shouting… had he yelled out Sherlock's name? That was the only thing he could remember saying in his dream. "I'm fine, really. Go back to bed," he added.

Mary said, "Alright then. I've got to go in early tomorrow, I might be gone by the time you're up." She went back to the bedroom and closed the door.

John stared at his hands. This was the second time John had nearly lost his best friend. His nightmares weren't as bad as they had been after the fall, but they were there nonetheless. He wished, for the thousandth time, that he had never met Sherlock Holmes. But of course, there was the other, ever-present voice with its same reply as always. _Where would you be if you hadn't met him?_

John remembered the day he met Sherlock. He had been so lost, so lonely… But in less than two minutes, Sherlock had completely changed that. He was so strange and intriguing, finally John had something in his life that was interesting. However annoying and destructive he might be, however many times Sherlock had left John feeling hollow and depressed, John needed the arrogant sod. Sherlock was the only thing that made his life interesting, and even though John complained about Sherlock's fits of boredom, he was the same way.

John got up to make himself a cup of tea. He couldn't sleep now, he was afraid he would land on the street outside Bart's again. For the ten thousandth time.

John sat down at the table to wait for the kettle to boil. As soon as he sat down, his phone, sitting on the coffee table, lit up and buzzed. He sighed and got up to grab it. He looked at the screen and sat down again. It was a text.

_John, I'm bored. –SH_

John raised an eyebrow. Of course Sherlock would text him in the middle of the night just to say he was bored. He began typing a response.

_Sherlock, it's two in the morning. You texted me at 2 in the morning just to say that? And how can you possibly be bored? What about Moriarty? -JW_

The kettle was whistling, so John went to turn off the burner. Sherlock really was ridiculous. He poured some water into a mug and put a teabag in. He left the tea to steep and checked his phone again.

_Yes I did text you at two in the morning. And judging by the speed of your reply, you were already awake. Why were you up at two in the morning? –SH_

_Couldn't sleep -JW_

John hoped Sherlock wouldn't pick up on the reason. As far as John knew, Sherlock didn't know about his recurring nightmares, and John wanted to keep it that way.

Back in 221B, Sherlock was lying on the couch in his dressing gown. The wall above him and the mirror across the room were plastered with case pictures and bits of information, and the desk in the middle of the room was covered in case files. The flat was a mess. Sherlock was staring at John's empty chair.

_That's rare. Why would you be unable to sleep? -SH_

Sherlock waited several minutes before John's reply came.

_It's really not that uncommon. –JW_

Sherlock stared at this cryptic reply. John usually slept very heavily, or at least he had when he was living at 221B. Sherlock typed his reply.

_Alright, but why? -SH_

_Just a bad dream -JW_

Sherlock wondered at that. John had had a nightmare? And from what he'd said about this inability to sleep being commonplace, the dreams must have been recurring.

_You've been having recurring nightmares. About what? -SH_

Sherlock waited a full ten minutes with no response.

_John? -SH_

_There was a talking bird, and it sounded like Mycroft. –JW_

Sherlock smirked.

_What did he do, bore you to death? -SH_

_Pretty much -JW_

_I'm going back to bed, goodnight Sherlock -JW_

Sherlock gazed at the empty red chair again. "Goodnight, John," he said into the darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

**So sorry for the wait again, guys, I am so bad at keeping up with stuff. It's finally raining today, which is good news for the quality of my writing (I hope). Rain is my muse. Anyways, enough of my rambling. Hope you enjoy this next chapter! It's a bit short, sorry. Review, follow, all that good stuff!**

John came up the stairs to his old flat to find Sherlock standing on the coffee table in his blue dressing gown, poring over a bunch of pictures and scraps of information pinned to the wall above the couch. "Sherlock?" John said, hovering by the door.

"But why the apple!" was the only reply, which John took to mean "come in." Sherlock whipped around, clasping his hands in front of his face for a moment before leaping down off of the table and picking up his violin from where it sat on the desk. He picked up his bow and began playing a very fast tune. His music stand was set up next to the desk; Sherlock had probably been whisking back and forth between the violin and the coffee table all night.

John moved to stand by the sofa. He looked at the multitude of information plastered to the wall. "You think Moriarty's reappearance has something to do with an apple."

"Yes of course, he wouldn't just leave it here without a reason! He's meticulous, he wouldn't have chosen something like that without a reason. Apple, apple, why an apple…" Sherlock's bow swished through the air as he spoke.

John turned to look at his friend. He glanced at the mirror on the opposite wall, and something clicked in his brain. "Isn't there an apple in one of those fairy tales… It's Snow White who's got the evil stepmother or something who tries to kill her with a magic apple?"

Sherlock stared at John, his face blank. "Snow White?" he asked.

John blinked back at Sherlock. "You don't know that one?"

Sherlock looked away, exasperated. John knew that look. It was the "no John I don't know it, if I ever did I've deleted it" look.

John sat down on the couch. "Snow White had the stepmother with the magic mirror, the one that always said she was the 'fairest one of all,' but one day it said that Snow White was prettier than her so she went round the bend completely, and sent some hunter to kill Snow White because she'd run off to live with some dwarves, but when the hunter found Snow White he couldn't kill her because she was so beautiful. The stepmother decided she would have to do it and turned herself into an old hag by magic and gave Snow White an enchanted apple that would make her sleep forever." John looked at Sherlock. "Then of course her prince comes and saves the day, happily ever after."

Sherlock sat down in his chair. He steepled his fingers and stared into space. He was in his mind palace. John sighed and went downstairs to talk to Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock would be out of it for a while.

"Oh… Oh! John!" Sherlock jumped up. Mrs. Hudson was in the kitchen taking something out of the oven. She straightened up, closing the oven door.

"He's not here, dear, he left a few hours ago. Your dinner's ready, eat it before it gets cold," she said, bustling out of the flat.

Sherlock stared at the carpet absently. John truly was his conductor of light. Moriarty did love a fairy tale, and one had begun playing out right under Sherlock's nose. Did this mean that Moriarty and Magnussen were connected? It wouldn't be surprising. He had entertained the possibility before, of course, but never as seriously as he did now. Magnussen's dead-eyed stare did liken him to a great hunter – a shark.

Thoughts chased each other round and round Sherlock's brain. If this was Moriarty's intention, to connect everything to this story, what would that mean for John? His friend's face swam to the front of Sherlock's mind. "…An enchanted apple that would make her sleep forever…" His eyes flew open.

"No," he said. If this was the game Moriarty intended to play, would they take John?

**So yeah, let me know what you think. I was going for a bit ambiguous, hope it isn't too much. I have been wondering about the significance of the apple for a while, and this is going to be my take on it. I think the actual plot will start in the next chapter. Please please please review, I love reading and replying to them! **


	4. Chapter 4

**Omigosh, it's been two whole weeks… I am so sorry, guys! Well, I did say not to expect quick updates, right? I wish I could just quit school and write all the time x3 This is where the plot is going to actually start, sorry it's taken so long and if it's been boring. This chapter took me a long time to write, I was having trouble with how to actually begin the plot. And homework. Hope it's worth the wait, please drop a favorite/review/follow! That's really the only way I can know if you guys are liking it, so please pleaseplease let me know what you think!**

Boring. Boring, boring, boring. Wake up, go to work, come home, eat dinner, go to sleep on the couch. Nightmares. The nightmares were the most interesting thing that had happened to John in the past week. Maybe Sherlock had been onto something – the "suffocating chains of domesticity" were slowly boring John to death. He couldn't take it any more.

John got up and put his empty cereal bowl in the sink. It was a Sunday, so he didn't have to go in to the office. He pulled on his coat and went outside, calling a cab.

John stared out the window on the way to 221B. He didn't think he could stand another week of this monotony. He hoped Sherlock had gotten a lead on Moriarty.

John entered 221B expecting to see Sherlock playing the violin or ensconced in his mind palace. He was surprised to see Mycroft standing in the middle of the room talking to Sherlock, who was, of course, ignoring his older brother. He looked rather childish, sitting in his chair plucking at his violin as he had a tendency to do when Mycroft came round. John had a sneaking suspicion that Sherlock had started playing violin in the first place just because Mycroft hated the sound of it.

"They will be expecting your reply by Wednesday," Mycroft was saying. He turned around upon hearing John enter, and said, "Oh, hello John, I was just -"

"Leaving," Sherlock interrupted, jumping up from his chair. He put down his violin and picked up his laptop from the desk.

Mycroft nodded to John, hesitated a moment, then left looking rather frustrated.

"So what was that about?" John asked, turning back to Sherlock.

Sherlock had sat back down in his chair. He steepled his fingers under his chin. "Not important."

John could see Sherlock starting to go to his mind palace. "Have you got any leads?" he asked.

"Leads? No, not really…" Sherlock said. He was gazing distractedly at his laptop, and didn't say anything else.

John figured Sherlock hadn't eaten in a while, and he didn't want to know what Sherlock had filled the fridge with in his absence, so he went to get some takeaway for lunch. Sherlock would be in his mind palace for a while. It was only 11 now, but by the time he came round, it would probably be past time for lunch.

John didn't hear anything coming from the flat when he came back. "Sherlock?" he called up the stairs, hoping his friend would come out of his reverie long enough to eat something. Still not hearing anything, he went up the steps. Sherlock hadn't moved. "I'm home, I got some takeaway," John said. When Sherlock still didn't move, John set about microwaving the food. Luckily there were no experiments in the microwave.

Sherlock dragged himself out of his mind palace. John looked tired. The tremor in his left hand had returned and his collar was turned up in the back – why hadn't Mary noticed that? He registered what John had said as he reentered the flat. "I'm home" – surely just automatic, right? Sherlock could tell that John had been sleeping on the couch recently, he had an obvious crick in his neck. So things were going badly between John and Mary.

Sherlock tried not to smile.

John turned around to see his friend had come out of his mind palace. "I got some food, you need to eat," he said. The microwave beeped and John took the container out.

"I'm on a case," Sherlock said.

John chuckled. "You're always on a case. You need to eat."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but ate without complaint when John placed the tray in front of him.

"So, how's the case going?" John asked.

Sherlock glanced up at John. " You're bored aren't you?"

John sighed and shook his head. "I know I shouldn't ask, but – how?"

"The intermittent tremor in your left hand, the last time I saw it was the first time I met you, when you were bored and missing the war. It's come back." They looked at each other.

John sat down in his chair and picked at his food. "Alright, I am bored. So what?"

Sherlock just shrugged. He went back to his food. They sat in silence for a few minutes.

"You never said… have you got any leads on Moriarty?" John broke the silence. Sherlock stared at his plate. He weighed his options, considering how much to tell John. How much would be too much, too obvious…

"The story of Snow White, the one you told me last week… I may be wrong, but I believe that Moriarty means to act it out. That he has been, it's been playing out for a while now."

John sat back and looked at Sherlock, waiting for further explanation.

Sherlock went through the story again. The mirror told the evil queen that Snow White was the fairest of all. After Moriarty died and Sherlock had dismantled his network, their games had ended. Thoughts of Moriarty had been pushed to the back of Sherlock's mind and instead, he thought only of John. Moriarty's obsession with Sherlock led him to jealousy – just like the queen. He had sent the hunter, Magnussen, who had failed to kill John. Now Moriarty was taking matters into his own hands. The queen had disguised herself as an old hag and given Snow White a poisoned apple that would make her sleep forever. Then her prince came and happily ever after.

Sherlock had a feeling that if Moriarty intended to play this out, there wouldn't be a 'happily ever after.'

"Magnussen was the hunter, and because he's gone, Moriarty is taking it upon himself to finish this." Sherlock locked eyes with John. "John… You need to be careful. Carry your gun everywhere and don't trust anyone."

"Don't trust anyone, what about you?" John leaned back in his chair.

"I hope that you will trust me, John. You can trust Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade as well, but no one else."

"What… about Mary?" John asked. Sherlock gave him a fleeting glance and looked away. "Wonderful. That's great, really… my own wife is trying to kill me."

Sherlock turned back to John. "Kill you? No… And we can't be certain that she isn't working with Moriarty. I don't know. I'm sorry, John."

Sorry… He had no idea. No clue at all what it was like to be torn, ripped apart like this. By someone you loved, someone you hated, someone whom you just weren't sure what to make of. He loved Mary, he did, but he could never forgive her shooting Sherlock. He loved Mary, but he didn't even know who she was.

John sat with head bowed. Silence filled the sitting room. Neither of them moved nor spoke for a good ten minutes.

Sherlock sat up, holding up a hand to silence John's question that he knew would come. He had heard the creaky stair.

Sherlock rose and moved towards the door. The near-silent footsteps stopped on the landing. John braced himself as he saw Sherlock tense.

The door opened slowly. A man all in black walked into the flat.

"When wishing to be stealthy, one should learn to avoid the stairs of old buildings, "Sherlock said, calm as ever. At least on the surface.

"When wishing to survive, one should learn to put their hands in the air," the stranger replied, as he pulled a revolver from his belt.

"I assure you I have nothing to hide." Sherlock raised his hands above his head. "You however… have quite the list. Where are the others?"

"Oh, they'll be here shortly. And when they come, John Watson is coming with me."

Sherlock held the man's gaze. "I don't think so," he said.

"I don't think you're really in a position to say such things." It was quite miraculous that the man had not quailed under the glare Sherlock was giving him now.

"And why wouldn't I be?" Only his eyes betrayed Sherlock's anger.

Sherlock got his answer. The world went dark.


	5. Chapter 5

**Oh my goodness, it's been forever… I had so much trouble writing this chapter, it just wouldn't come out right. I'm still not 100 per cent sure it's really what I want it to be, but it's been so long that I figured I'd put it up anyways. Sorry for leaving with a cliffhanger for so long, but you're in the Sherlock fandom, you're probably used to it by now… Anyways, here's the chapter – finally!**

Sherlock struggled back to consciousness. He could hear voices, distant as though they came through an old, badly tuned radio. It took him a few seconds more to be able to distinguish words.

'Should be wakin' up in about five minutes,' one voice said. 'John might take a little bit longer, he hasn't got a… history.'

'I thought they gave him a smaller dose so they'd wake up 'bout the same time,' said another man.

'Dunno, ask the boss. Everythin's all planned and calculated and whatnot.'

Sherlock felt hatred boil within him. These people, whoever they were (obviously part of some organisation) had drugged him and John. He was now conscious enough to be able to feel his restraints cutting into his wrists and ankles, and a gag, dry in his mouth. There were ropes round his chest as well; they had tied him to a chair.

He opened his eyes a fraction of an inch. They were still in the flat. This surprised him; why hadn't they been carted off to some criminal base as soon as they'd lost consciousness? Two men were leaning against the doorway to the kitchen. Two of the kitchen chairs were missing; Sherlock assumed these were the chairs that he and John were tied to. He sensed a third man behind him. John was next to him.

John. Bound, gagged, unconscious. Sherlock's mind nearly abandoned him. John was here, John needed his help, there was nothing he could do… His mind was fragmenting, floating away like a helium balloon.

_No!_ he thought, he needed to think. Focus. John needed him. Sherlock grasped the end of the balloon's string and pulled it back to earth. Focus.

There were probably snipers in the buildings across the street in case he tried to escape. The man behind him was likely heavily armed. The other two had handguns, not much else. Nevertheless, if he made a move, at least six people would shoot. But they wouldn't aim for him.

He could hear John shift beside him. He was waking up. Sherlock began to move as well. He opened his eyes, trying to appear groggy.

'Ah! Awake at last, are we?' said one of the men in the doorway, moving to stand in front of Sherlock. 'Well, it hasn't been that long, I suppose. Just long enough to tie you two up.'

John looked up at the strange man blearily. 'What the-?'

'Oh, it's alright, Johnny boy,' said the man. 'Confused? Perhaps Sherlock can tell us what he knows!' The man turned away from John, and John saw who was sitting next to him.

Sherlock glared at the man before him. He wieghed his options. He would tell them something, but not everything. Important to let them think they had the upper hand.

'There are snipers in the buildings across the street. If we make a move to escape, 6 people will shoot, including the three of you here. The snipers have been given orders to shoot anyone in the flat if necessary, you three are expendable.'

The intruders looked momentarily stunned – expendable? A smug look passed over Sherlock's face; he thought that the last bit was likely, but had said it more to sow doubt into the minds of the strangers. Sherlock had worked with these kinds of criminals many times before. They worked for organisations, but their true priority was themselves. If they thought their lives were in danger, they would do anything to save themselves. They didn't really care about their employer, just the money.

Sherlock smirked as the criminals attempted to regain their composure. He knew he had managed to get through their thick skulls. How had they not realised that Moriarty didn't care about petty human lives, even if they were working for him?

'Well… erm, yes of course,' said the man who appeared to be the leader. 'So know that if you make a move, we _will_ blast you to smithereens. Except for you, Sherly. Boss seems to want you alive.'

John watched a confused expression cloud Sherlock's features for a moment before his eyes cleared. 'Of course… he intends to burn my heart out,' Sherlock muttered.

John froze. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him. Moriarty was behind this.

The criminals, upon seeing Sherlock's realisation, were convinced. Sherlock laughed inwardly - he had known that much for weeks. Moriarty intended to take John in order to 'burn his heart out.' Sherlock had to admit that he didn't know how he himself would react.

'Course he does, wouldn't be fun otherwise. Now, Sherly… this is the best part! Untie him,' said the leader, nodding to the man standing behind the chairs. 'Remember Sherl, if you move, John dies!'

Sherlock felt the big, clumsy hands of the gunman untying his bonds. Sherlock stood and faced the leader. He saw three laser sights trained on John.

The leader pulled a gun out of his belt and twirled it nonchalantly. He put the gun against John's temple and said, 'So, Sherlock. Anything to say to John?'

John looked up at Sherlock and blinked. Though the intruders may not have seen through Sherlock's calm façade, John knew him well enough to do just that. His eyes, usually so cold, were full of emotion. Fear, anger, worry… and something else. John had seen that look before from Sherlock, but he couldn't remember where. Or fathom what it was.

Sherlock looked at John, choosing his words carefully. 'I made a promise… I intend to keep it,' he said.

John saw a flash of pain in Sherlock's eyes. His voice was quiet as he said, 'You'll know when the time comes.'

John's brow furrowed at these cryptic words, but the man holding a gun to his head just laughed. 'What, he doesn't know yet? I'd have thought better of the detective's pet… Bit obvious really.'

John was quite confused now. He glanced at Sherlock, who closed his eyes for a second. He looked at John.

And John realised where he had seen that look before – that day on the tarmac.

'Pitiful, you are! Can't even say it now… Might not see John again, Sherl. You're too late. Johnny boy is coming with us, and there isn't a thing you can do about it.' The leader pressed his gun against John's head and motioned to his cronies with his other hand.

Sherlock didn't say anything. He just stood there. John stared, still confused, after him as he was carried down the stairs and out of the flat. You'll know… know what?

'Well Johnny… now we've got you, might as well make the trip easier,' he heard a voice say, and felt the needle enter his neck.


	6. Chapter 6

**It's been a while, sorry about that! I don't know why these take me so long to write. I love reading reviews, they make me so happy, so please review/follow/favorite! I really want to hear what you guys think.**

Sherlock was shaking. He moved, in a trance, over to his chair and sank into it. His hands were shaking, his mind a broken record. John. John. John.

He tried to seek comfort within his mind palace, but he couldn't seem to find the stairs. He was adrift. His small boat floated aimlessly between the outside world and his inner world. Communications systems were down, no visibility, no waves to send him one way or the other. The water was clear and blank, the sky a toneless grey. He was nowhere. Simply nowhere.

_Look at me John, I'm afraid. For you. For everyone. For what I will become if I can't find you. I don't want to be an empty shell, John. Forever adrift. I need you to throw me a line, bring me to shore, but you're…_

He couldn't think it. Not that word. He would find John. He needed to find John. His raft was beginning to break down, slowly splintering, crumbling. He was going to fall, to flounder in the vast, empty ocean, to drown. Alone. Without John. Drowning in his own mind.

He felt a small wave. Two, three small waves. He turned around and saw it.

A massive wave, ever growing, hastening towards his tiny raft. He didn't even have time to put on a life jacket.

The tidal wave swept him up, up, raft fragmenting beneath him. It swept him along and grew higher and higher until it reached the mainland. And he fell. Down, down, down, slammed into the harsh gravel of the beach, and felt the wave pass over him. Tonnes of water, eating away at the beach, threatening to drag him back into the sea.

He felt the tidal wave, felt it rise within him, felt it freeze his bones. He couldn't move, all he knew was pain. It tore at him from the inside out, clawing at his soul. He couldn't breathe. Everything was nothing.

The wave slammed him back into the world of the outside. He wasn't ready, he couldn't face them yet. He needed them. Sherlock reached out for his mobile to text Lestrade. His hand paused. Did he really trust himself to not completely break down in his friend's presence? Would he fall to his knees and beg Lestrade to fix it, to fix him?

He placed a brick on the gravel beach. One by one, they stacked up until he had built a small dam. He picked up his phone, steeled himself, and texted Lestrade.

_Help_

The most agonising two minutes of his life were spent waiting for Lestrade's reply.

_What do you need? –GL_

Sherlock's hands shook. The dam was leaking. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes, before typing one word.

_John_

Greg glanced down at his phone as he walked. A text, of course. He reached his desk and sat down, pulling out his mobile. He unlocked it and read the single word typed there. Without the initials, he almost didn't realise who it was until he looked at the contact details. If Sherlock couldn't even type his initials, something must be wrong, very wrong. But he had done this before. He had been on an early shift that morning, if this was important, he could probably get off now. Just to make sure, he typed back:

_What do you need? –GL_

The reply was longer in arriving than usual, and when he opened it, Greg was surprised to see just four letters.

_John_

Greg leapt up from his chair and grabbed his coat, storing his mobile in his pocket as he ran for the door. He dug his car keys out of his pocket and was nearly outside before he felt a hand on his arm.

'Greg, what's wrong?' Sally Donovan asked. 'It's him again, right?'

Lestrade looked to the door, close to wrenching his arm from her and running from the building. 'Yes, it's him. Look, something's happened to John and if I don't get there soon, who knows what Sherlock'll do.'

'Well it's not like he's going to kill himself, is it?' said Donovan, a small twinkle in her eye.

'I wouldn't put it past him,' Greg shot back, effectively killing the humour.

Sally paled. 'I'll cover for you,' she said, releasing his arm.

'Thanks!' Greg called over his shoulder as he sprinted out the door.

Lestrade jumped into his car and pulled out of the lot as fast as he could without hitting anyone, pushing the speed limit as much as he dared.

Red light. The brakes squealed a little as Lestrade pulled to a stop. He was wishing he had sirens when he realised he should probably text Sherlock. He pulled out his phone, sending a quick message.

_On my way, there in 5_

True to his word, five minutes later Lestrade was bounding up the stairs to 221B. He burst in the door and said, 'What's wrong?'

Sherlock was sitting on the floor, staring blankly at the rug. He was completely still except for his hands, which moved seemingly of their own accord, tapping on the floor in a nervous manner. He didn't even react when Greg came in. Not a word, not a glance, not even a break in the manic tapping. His shoulders were slumped, and in the absence of his usual suit jacket, Sherlock looked quite dishevelled. His eyes were glassy, and he was even paler than usual. He was shaking slightly, as though holding back tears. It was as if the life had gone from his body, leaving an empty shell, just slightly out of sync with the rest of the world.

He reminded Greg of John after the Fall.

Greg peered at Sherlock from the kitchen doorway for a moment before moving forward. He crouched down in front of the broken man and said, 'Sherlock?'

No response.

'Sherlock, can you hear me?' Greg asked. 'What's happened to John?'

Sherlock looked up at this. He stared straight through Greg and muttered, 'John…' His voice was so hoarse it was barely audible.

Lestrade had seen Sherlock in a state like this once before, a long time ago, and that was when he had been most afraid for his friend. He could handle himself perfectly well in dangerous situations, but he just couldn't handle himself. This time, his state was even worse.

Greg pulled out his mobile and typed a message to Mycroft.

_We need a little help at Baker St, something has happened to John and Sherlock is out of it. –GL_

Lestrade received a reply exactly seven minutes later in the form of a sleek black car gliding to a stop beneath the window of 221B. In all that time, Sherlock had not moved except for his nervous tapping and occasional mutterings of 'John.'

Greg went to the window and watched as Mycroft exited the car and entered the building. Seconds later he heard footsteps on the stairs and walked towards the door. Mycroft walked into the flat, took one look at Sherlock, and walked straight over to him.

'Has he said anything, anything at all since you came?' Mycroft asked, glancing at Lestrade.

'Er, no, not really… just 'John,'' Greg replied, looking at the broken form at Mycroft's feet.

Mycroft bent to put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. 'Sherlock,' he said, 'what has happened to John?'

Lestrade was only a little surprised that Sherlock looked up at this.

'Mycroft,' Sherlock said. All of his desperation seemed to hang on that one word. Sherlock grasped his brother's wrist in what could only be assumed was a very unusual gesture, as Mycroft blinked.

'Sherlock. Where is John.' It wasn't a question.

'They took… took John. I have to find him. Find John,' Sherlock said. He stopped tapping. He raised his eyes from the floor and his gaze found Mycroft's. The stormclouds in the grey-blue of his eyes were alarming. Mycroft could have sworn he saw lightning in them as Sherlock whispered a word that Mycroft had never heard his brother use, a word that, in its broken desperation, would haunt Mycroft forever.

'Please.'

As Sherlock lowered his head again, a single tear carved a path down his cheek and fell into his lap. Usually the cracks spread so fast. A matter of milliseconds and the glass was shattered. But this slow shattering, cracks seeping, languid, throughout the world, sky falling in slow motion, was so much worse.

'Sherlock?' Mycroft was calling to him again. 'Sherlock, who took John?'

This simple sentence seemed to breathe a small amount of life back into Sherlock. He straightened up and looked around for his jacket. 'They… they were working for Moriarty. I've been blind, he's been spinning his web again. Blind, blind idiot,' he muttered, pulling his jacket on and going for his coat.

'Wait, Sherlock,' said Lestrade. 'Where d'you think you're going?'

Sherlock gave Lestrade a 'your stupidity is astonishing' look and said, 'I'm going to find John.' He tied his scarf around his neck and went for the door. 'Come on –'

Sherlock froze. One hand on the doorknob. Blank stare. Slowly his lips moved to form one word, whispered, barely even there.

'John…'


End file.
